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“Sometimes it feels like it.”
“I haven’t unpacked.” The admission’s out before I can stop it. Shame edges my voice. “Just in case…”
With a sigh, Davis sits on the edge of the bed beside me, staring out the front window that overlooks the ranch. My heart breaks. He looks like a lost little boy. Vulnerable. A person I bet no one hardly ever sees. Except me.
“How often do you have nightmares?”
“Every night,” he grunts, scraping a hand over his stubbled jaw.
“About Sully?”
Davis stands, leaving the bed for the bar. I watch how his gray sweatpants slip low on his hips, revealing the top curve of his muscular ass, the dips of his waist. He pours himself a golden finger of whiskey, and I note he didn’t answer my question.
I wet my lips, trying to stop ogling him. “I have daymares, you know.”
Maybe it’s the darkness that fuels my confession. Maybe it’s the safety of Davis’s room, the cool rumble of his voice. “Right in broad daylight. My arm—I can still see it. Feel it. That snap of bone.” I shiver, my voice becomes ethereal. It’s my turn to be dazed. “I try so hard to get out of that kitchen. It’s like a door I keep stepping through to find the right exit, only it doesn’t lead out. It keeps leading back into that memory. That dream.”
Davis sighs. “That’s PTSD.”
“Yeah,” I breathe and rub a chill from my arms. “I know.”
He pauses, towering over me to wrap a quilt around my shoulders.
All it takes is that quilt, the hit of his smell, and the memories come. Me on Davis’s bed. His big fingers tangled in my hair, him swearing, working to unravel the mess, then kissing me, crossing that line, playing with fire, every weekend.
Unable to take the heat from the man hovering over me, I stand. The quilt slips from my shoulders, and I feel Davis’s dark eyes follow me as I cross to the nightstand. I open the drawer, and there it is. Same lotion, same brand.
Then, like I’ve hit rewind, I return and rest a knee on the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” I say.
Something in the night must be making me brave. Or foolish. Or horny.
A crease furrows his brow. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Sit and shut up, Hotshot.”
He does.
I uncap the lotion. Then I touch him. His breath goes jagged as he sucks it in, and his body tenses, as if in the grip of another nightmare.
Under my hand, his muscles become clay. Become mine. I massage his arm. His bullet wound like a small, neat pebble. I can’t stop my pulse from quickening. My eyes from tracking over his golden and muscular body.
Davis sits there, stiff and unmoving, fists resting on his thighs.
“Your scar looks good.” I run my hand along his chiseled bicep, hating how much I love the feel of his solid muscles. “You took care of it.”
He tilts his face up, and our gazes meet. That square jaw of his jumps. “You told me to.”
Pink stains my cheeks and I’m grateful for the dark. “Bossing the boss man.” A small smile ghosts my lips. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Five siblings. I gotta be bossy.”
“You ever stop growling and listen to them?”
His chuckle is gruff. “Think they’d die of shock.”
“You listened to me today. Thank you. For grounding me.” His gaze holds mine. “You made me feel like a better version of myself, if only for a few minutes.”
